Page 8 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)
Ben
I hadn’t even closed the door all the way before I opened my laptop and typed hotels near Buttercup Lake.
It wasn’t even subtle. My fingers moved like I was looking up how to escape a country, not a lodge with floral pillows and small soaps that smelled like something a woodland nymph would wear.
But I needed options.
Because whatever this was, the situation with Fifi was not relaxing. It was not calm. It was not me sipping coffee in peace by the lake while pondering the meaning of life in blessed solitude.
It was unpredictable.
It was chaotic.
It was her.
Fifi.
With her sunny voice, soap jokes, and eyes that saw way too much.
And the worst part?
I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Which is why I was now scrolling through hotel listings like a man possessed.
There weren’t many, which should’ve been my first red flag.
This wasn’t some sprawling vacation hotspot with twelve different brands and five-tier reward programs. This was Buttercup Lake.
A dot on the map. One bakery, two traffic lights, and, if I remembered correctly, a hardware store that also sold fudge.
Sure, locals came up here on the weekends to kick back and relax, but it wasn’t like I had many options.
I found one place.
Click.
The photos were… fine. Modern. Stark. Mostly beige. The kind of place that prided itself on having USB outlets in the headboard and water that tasted like it had passed through at least eight layers of corporate filtration.
Perfect.
Exactly what I needed.
I clicked Book Now .
And then—
We’re sorry, but no rooms are available for your selected dates.
I blinked.
Refreshed the page.
Tried different dates.
Still nothing.
Everyone and their grandmother’s watercolor club had decided to descend on Buttercup Lake at the same time I had. The upscale Buttercup Lodge, perched on the lake across the way, was also fully booked, which made sense. The Honey Leaf Lodge and Buttercup Lodge were jewels in this small town.
I leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, scowling at the screen like it had personally betrayed me.
Fine.
I tried another place.
A roadside inn a few miles out of town with suspiciously low lighting in every photo.
“Quaint,” I muttered, reading the first review aloud. “Quaint, but smells like wet carpet and wet dog. I wouldn’t stay again even if I were desperate.”
Pass.
I stared at the laptop for a few seconds, then clicked the tab closed.
Okay.
So moving hotels would be a pain. I’d have to re-pack, notify the lodge, and coordinate the checkout. And then I’d end up in a motel with questionable stains, no view of the lake, and Wi-Fi that only worked if you stood on one foot and whispered to the router.
Still.
It would get me away from her.
Fifi.
Every time I saw her, she said something that crawled under my skin and stayed there. Like a burr I couldn’t brush off. And worse… she made me laugh.
Against my will. With her weird metaphors and unsolicited commentary on my room scent.
I didn’t come here to flirt.
I didn’t come here to get pulled into whatever energetic storm cloud she operated under, with her wild hair and ridiculous optimism and the way she looked at me like I was more than a walking grumble in boots.
I came here to breathe.
And now I was considering changing hotels as if it were a matter of national emergency because a woman with a clipboard and a cleaning caddy made me forget my own name for five seconds at a time.
I rubbed a hand over my face and stood up.
Paced.
I could leave.
I could.
I could reframe this whole trip. Go somewhere else. Find a secluded cabin and go fishing. Maybe one of those weird Airbnb treehouses that brag about composting toilets and spiritual energy.
But I didn’t move toward the suitcase.
I sat back down.
Because if I was honest with myself, and I really didn’t want to be, I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave.
Fifi was infuriating, yes.
But she was also real and unapologetically herself in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time. And that thing I kept mistaking for chaos?
It was life.
Alive. Colorful. Messy. And somehow, exactly what I didn’t realize I’d been missing until she barged into my morning with a caddy full of cedar soap and told me I smelled nice, like it was a threat.
I exhaled, dragged the laptop closer, opened a new email draft, and typed the following to my assistant back home:
“Hey, pushing back the Monday call. Still out. Still unreachable. Don’t forward me anything unless it’s literally on fire.”
Then I clicked send.
And leaned back again.
Maybe I didn’t need to run.
Perhaps I needed to stay.
Even if it meant getting lightly insulted every time I opened my door.
Even if it meant another two weeks of sunshine, sass, and a walking reminder that not everything in life had to be perfect to be worth it.
I wasn’t sure what that meant yet, but I didn’t need to.
Not today.
Today, I was still here.
And maybe that was enough.
The light outside was starting to shift again, where day and night traded places but didn’t do it cleanly.
I was sitting in the armchair, elbows on my knees, fingers laced tightly. The laptop sat closed on the desk across the room, exactly where I’d left it an hour ago.
I hadn’t touched it since.
I wasn’t avoiding work.
Not exactly.
More like… avoiding everything else .
The quiet had started to feel too loud. It was the kind of silence that didn’t soothe. It echoed and bounced around my mind, knocking things off the high shelves I’d stuffed them on years ago.
The shelves that held all the things I didn’t talk about.
Didn’t let myself think about.
I didn’t come here to unpack my feelings. I came here to get away. But even the lake and the trees couldn’t keep the thoughts out forever.
I leaned back in the chair and let my head tip against the wall.
It was the lodge. Or maybe it was her.
That woman, Fifi. She reminded me of the life I used to think I’d have before everything cracked. Before people I loved disappeared without a warning. Before I learned how to survive by keeping everything in.
She made it look easy, being open. Like her joy was a resource that would never run out. I didn’t trust that, and I certainly couldn’t in my line of work.
Because I’d seen what happened when you let your guard down.
I closed my eyes, just for a second.
But the memory flickered up before I could stop it.
A hospital room.
A voicemail I didn’t check until it was too late.
The look on my brother’s face when he told me I’d missed it…that our dad had asked for me, and I wasn’t there.
I sat up straight. Jaw clenched.
No.
I wasn’t going there.
Not tonight.
I stood and grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door.
Dinner at the lodge was about to start soon. I could hear faint clinks and clatter through the floorboards. The silverware clanging, chairs being moved, and the hum of conversation began to stir.
I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t sit there while everyone smiled and passed around bread baskets like life wasn’t sharp around the edges.
I wouldn’t eat rolls and pretend I wasn’t unraveling every time she looked at me like I was good.
Town would be better.
Predictable.
Impersonal.
I slid on my jacket and grabbed the keys from the side table, heading down the hall, boots solid and certain against the creaking wood.
I avoided the dining room once I reached downstairs. The scent of garlic, butter, and herbs curled through the air like a warm hand trying to pull me back, but I kept walking through the front door, onto the porch, and into the cool summer night air.
My car was parked beneath the maple tree, shadowed by the growing dusk.
I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
It wasn’t until I was halfway down the road, the lodge fading in my rearview mirror, that I realized my hands were still shaking.
Not with fear or even grief.
It was with something I couldn’t quite name.
Something like almost .
Almost ready.
Almost open.
Almost… human.
But not yet.
I turned onto Main Street, the familiar string lights overhead flickering to life, storefronts glowing softly. The town had that whole storybook small-town thing going, like a woman with a Pinterest board had designed it. And somehow, it wasn’t annoying.
It was comforting.
I parked in front of Buttercup Cafe. It had a neon sign that buzzed a little too loudly and a chalkboard in the window that read, “ Today’s Special: Avocado Chicken Salad with Cheese Curds.”
Sold.
I walked in and found a booth in the corner, keeping my back to the wall.
The waitress came over, and I ordered without even opening the menu.
Avocado chicken salad. Curds. Black coffee.
She gave me a tired smile and walked off without pressing for conversation.
Good.
The hum of the diner filled the space around me, with forks tapping on plates, teenagers at the counter laughing over milkshakes, and the low murmur of someone on the phone in the corner.
And for the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe…not because I was happy.
This wasn’t the lodge, with its soft lighting and scent of vanilla and lemon. No one here looked at me like I had potential. No one here wanted anything from me except a tip and maybe a refill.
This was manageable.
The food arrived quickly, and I ate in silence.
And as I did, that knot in my chest loosened just enough to remind me it was there.
I still had work to do. Not the kind that came with deadlines or inboxes.
The kind that whispered in the quiet.
But for now, cheese curds, lettuce, and solitude would do.
And maybe was enough to make it through tonight.